The Adventures of the Spectrum Detective
by Ashtrees
Summary: A second series of one-shots about Sherlock being on the autism spectrum. Chapter Fifteen: A Christmassy chapter.
1. Holmes

_I own neither Sherlock nor the Cookie Monster, but if I had to choose I would own Sherlock - he wouldn't eat my cookies. I also don't own Bowie._

**The Adventures of the Spectrum Detective (A.S.D)**

**Chapter 1: Sherlock Holmes**

_Extract from the e-diary of Dr John H. Watson, written for his grandchildren._

_7__th__ January 2069_

_Music file included: Remembering Marie A_

Today would have been Sherlock's eighty-seventh birthday. He died exactly ten years ago.

The song I have added to this entry is one that you are unlikely to know: Remembering Marie A by David Bowie. It was one of Sherlock's favourite songs. I doubt that many people would have accepted that he could love such a sentimental song. He never told me why he liked it so much, but I often heard him playing the tune on his violin. It was his brother Mycroft who told me the name of the song and he was equally secretive about Sherlock's reasons for enjoying it. Or perhaps I am over analyzing, a habit which Sherlock passed onto his closest friends, and there was no specific reason - he just liked the song. But, hearing it now brings back many memories to me, both good and bad ones.

There is one particular quote from the song, which was originally a poem, that comes to mind whenever I think of Sherlock: "That cloud had only bloomed for minutes, and when I looked up it vanished on the air." Sherlock was that cloud; he died young twice. (Seventy-seven doesn't sound like much to me anymore).

I used that quote at both of his funerals.

Some critics frowned on me for using the same tribute twice But, I had warned Sherlock that I would. People had enjoyed it the first time round. Why waste a good speech?

Besides, during the time that we believed that Sherlock had committed suicide was the most miserable time of our lives. At that funeral all people could ask in stunned whispers was, "Why?" and "How could he do all those awful things?" They, of course, were convinced that Sherlock was in fact a criminal mastermind and had tricked and killed many people.

But, for his second, _real_ funeral the mood was very different. It was the celebration of a great and _good_ man's life. There was sadness, but there also a lot of swapping of intriguing and funny stories about Sherlock.

Yes, it hurts to remember that my friend had died at a relatively young age but, unfortunately, I was not surprised, after the initial shock of his sudden passing. I don't think it would have surprised him either, although, knowing Sherlock, he probably died exactly when he chose to. I can't be certain why he would have wanted to have died when he did, but I think that he felt that he was too frail to enjoy life. His mind remained sharp, but his body, his transport, was crumbling. To be trapped in a weak body and fully aware of it…no, I would not wish that on anyone.

No, in the end I believe that the years of abusing his transport - going without food, sleep and rest, the cigarettes and, yes, the drugs - caught up with him. But ultimately, he worked too hard and to very end of his life. Mycroft was always telling him to slow down.

Sherlock died around three in the morning in his sleep. A gentle passing, of which I am thankful.

It was Molly who found him. Her husband had suddenly left her after thirty years of marriage, and since then she had lived with Sherlock. It had been a short visit that had somehow turned into a permanent stay.

Some mornings she would bring Sherlock a cup of tea in his bedroom and on that morning she had planned to bring him one because it was his birthday. But, she was woken earlier than usual by one of the dogs whining and scratching at her door. She was led to Sherlock's room and when she entered she immediately saw that he was gone - a pathologist's eye -and that he was far too cold.

I was once asked by a journalist to sum Sherlock up in just a few words. I didn't think that it was possible to do so, but to please the man I eventually said, "Brilliant, loyal and brave." I actually put very little thought into those words.

The man scribbled down my answer, but then he looked up surprised.

"You don't think that his autism was a more significant characteristic than say the bravery?"

I honestly don't know the answer to that. Some people say, "I have autism," and others say, "I am autistic." Did Sherlock view his autism as part of his core being? Or was it an added extra, as part of him as his familiar blue scarf?

Those are questions which only Sherlock himself could answer. But, I'm not sure that even he would be certain of the answer.

Some days I saw Sherlock suffering shutdowns, meltdowns and sensory overloads. It caused him to have bouts of chronic depression and anxiety, including the humiliating and painful symptoms of IBS. Insomnia had haunted him for most of his life.

He had always struggled to make and keep friends, instead building up a network of acquaintances who would be willing to pay back favours should he need them for any reason. He had even struggled with familial relationships. His own mother once told me herself that she used to doubt his love for her. He had never found it easy to express affection, although I know that he felt it.

All these things makes me think his autism was nothing more than a thorn in his side and not really a part of him, his essence and very being. But, here I am only focusing on the negatives. I haven't written about the positives yet.

In brief, the positives of his autism meant:

He was able to form and stick to his own opinions without being influenced by others or social context. He was non-judgmental of people and situations.

He was always determined to seek the truth, even to his own personal cost.

He had incredible focus. He was able to work harder, faster and more effectively than the all of the Yard detectives put together.

He was a great gatherer of knowledge, cataloguing and storing it efficiently.

He was highly logical in all areas of his life, which made him a very wise friend to me. He was also an unique problem solver. I was able to explain any difficulty I was having or any argument I had had and he was able to offer a new perspective on the problem, even if it meant proving I was in the wrong.

He had an incredible vocabulary. Some days I required a dictionary and thesaurus to speak to him.

He had an amazing visual way of thinking in HD quality.

He had an unusual sense of humour. It sometimes got us into trouble, but I could usually appreciate it…after a month or two….

His heightened senses often proved useful in solving cases.

Certain things made him extremely happy and he would come to life: an exciting case, music, even certain vivid colours. At those times he would seem more alive than I was.

Through this diary I can only write about Sherlock and _his_ autism, the good and the bad, because all people are individuals. Autism presents like individual snowflakes which have fallen from the same cloud. They have come from the same cloud, but the micro-environments within that cloud may be slightly different, producing incredible differences in the appearance of the snowflake. I will do my best to give you a balanced view of the positives and negatives.

But, what came from Sherlock's own goodness and strength was his choice to help those in need; he solved cases rather than plotted crimes, although he was capable of doing both. Those things were a part of his core personality. Above all things he was my wise and loyal friend and I owe him so much.

_A/N: Thank you for reading. _


	2. Education Begins

**Education Begins**

_1985_

From age three to five Sherlock Holmes attended a private day nursery at his mother's insistence. Silvia Holmes had always worried about the seven year age gap between Sherlock and his elder brother, Mycroft, and was concerned that Sherlock was lonely and missing out on opportunities for improving his social skills, as all young children must.

Silvia often had her friends and their young children over at the house, but Sherlock showed little interest in them, unless he wanted them to act out some pirate themed scenario for him. Silvia was pleased by this, but despaired at the sight of her bossy son trying to encourage a young boy to walk off a plank into the fish pond. However, it seemed to concern her friends more. They kept saying things like:

"Silvia, sweetie, it's _not_ normal to keep playing the same game in exactly the same way over and over again! My Charlotte never does."

Or:

"Sherlock is too controlling! You've spoilt him! How will he cope when he attends school?"

Silvia would bite her lip at these criticisms and try to smooth things over by reminding her friends that Sherlock was a Holmes and that her husband was very similar, or that Sherlock was showing signs of being intellectually gifted and so there were bound to be other things which were not quite right about him.

Silvia had married Jeremy at a very young age (just as Mycroft was being to show), entering a whole new world, and took all condemnations from her older and (supposedly) wiser peers to heart. She believed that Sherlock was a little more sensitive than Mycroft, but they had their resemblances in terms of being both gifted and indifferent to other children - but, that was how Jeremy was! Surely, it was all just personality quirks and could easily be overcome with time.

Jeremy was not best pleased when Silvia repeated back to him everything that her friends had said of Sherlock. He became even more agitated when Silvia said that she wanted to enrol Sherlock at a local day nursery she had found and liked.

"You too easily allow other people to influence you!" he snapped. "They're jealous of Sherlock because he's more intelligent than their children. Now they're pressuring you to send him to nursery! Can't you think for yourself?"

"I can!" said Silvia. "They didn't even mention the word nursery - I thought of that myself. And I think that it would be good for Sherlock to go!"

Jeremy growled as he slid out of bed, gathering up half of the blankets.

"Where are you going?"

"To sleep on the sofa. It's too uncomfortable sharing a bed with you, Silvia."

Silvia folded her arms, tears streaming down her face. "You know what, Jeremy? Why don't we have the sofa moved to in here? At least then we would be sharing the same bedroom!"

Jeremy nodded. "That's a good idea."

"Get out!"

000000000000000

The private day nursery Sherlock was sent to was a very good one. It had plenty of staff, and large indoor and outdoor spaces.

Sherlock favoured being outdoors. He enjoyed hiding behind the sheds (which he wasn't supposed to do) and clambering up the trees (he was also not supposed to do this, but no member of staff had caught him at it yet and explained that it was against the rules). He also liked to ride the bicycles and tricycles.

Sherlock was tall for a three year old and no had problem in working out how to ride them properly. Many children of the same age were still at the stage of pushing their tricycles forward with their feet on the ground.

During the morning playtime, Sherlock stopped his tricycle and clambered off it, ready to dash over to something else. He left the tricycle standing in the middle of the playground.

"Sherlock!" the supervising student-teacher called. Still at university Mr Fox counted himself lucky to be working at such a prestigious place, but he was still learning.

Sherlock carried on running as best as he could for a three year old, holding out his arms stiffly and moving his legs in an usual gait.

Not content to allow him to get away with his minor offence and wanting to show his mentors that he was perfectly capable of maintaining discipline, Mr Fox ran after the young boy, feeling slightly flustered that Sherlock was causing yet more trouble.

It was difficult enough being a man in a woman's world and being eyed with suspicion. Mr Fox had hoped to break down some boundaries, seeing himself as some sort of pioneer, but had to come to realize that he was only tolerated because he was young. If had been middle-aged and overweight then he would have found the feelings of distrust intolerable. However, the children loved him. It was a novelty having a man around and at play time the children, especially the boys, would flock around him. Except for Sherlock Holmes.

Mr Fox knew enough not to grab or touch the boy, but instead blocked Sherlock's path. This time the boy came to a standstill.

"Sherlock," Mr Fox said, sternly. "You know the rules. We don't leave the bikes in the middle of the playground, do we? You have to park them first by the fence before you do anything else." He pointed with his finger in the direction of the bike. He was a little put out that Sherlock didn't even try to see where he was pointing, but instead was staring at the ground. "Off you go," he prompted. "Put your bike away."

Sherlock didn't move.

"Sherlock," Mr Fox said, warningly. He received no response. "If you don't then I'll have to send you inside and you won't be playing outside for the rest of the day."

At this point Sherlock burst into tears. He sat down on the ground upon the wet, mashed-up leaves, bumping his head against his drawn-up knees.

"It's no good crying," Mr Fox mumbled uncomfortably, aware that he was losing control of the situation. "You should do as you're told."

The sound of a crying child will always attract the attention of other children, so it was inevitable that Trevor would appear and do his little best to interfere. Although, Sherlock had never shown any interest in him, Trevor was convinced on an almost daily basis that he and Sherlock were best friends.

"There, there, Sherlock," he said, waving his hand up and down near Sherlock's shoulder in a patting motion, but never actually touching him. "It's almost Mummy time."

Mr Fox rolled his eyes at this. It was still the morning and, in any case, most of the children were picked up by their Nannies - the paid-for baby-sitting kind, rather than blood relations.

"Naughty!" Trevor suddenly scolded, pointing a finger at Mr Fox. "You made Sherlock cry!"

"Go play some where else, Trevor," Mr Fox said, firmly.

Fortunately, for him Sherlock's group teacher was also outside on supervisory duty and had heard the commotion. With some difficulty she managed to encourage Sherlock to get up off the ground and follow her inside to calm down. He was in a terrible mood for the rest of the day.

After Sherlock and his teacher had disappeared inside, the second student wandered over to Mr Fox and whispered, "He's spoilt rotten, that one!"

"I know," Mr Fox nodded. "I bet he doesn't anything for himself at home. He couldn't even be bothered to put the bike back!"

Later that afternoon when Sherlock had been safely taken home by his Nanny, Silvia sat him down to ask why he had been so upset that day, having heard some of the story from the Nanny, who had been informed by the teacher.

"Why didn't you listen to Mr Fox, Sherlock?" Silvia Holmes asked.

"I did, Mother," Sherlock whispered, twisting his fingers together as he wriggled in his seat.

"He told you to move the bike and you didn't. Why not?"

"There wasn't a bike there."

"Well, what was there?"

"A tricycle. I had been riding a tricycle and not a bike. A bike has only two wheels, but a tricycle has three. But, Mr Fox said I had been riding a bike."

Silvia nodded, amazed as always by her son's own precision of language. His language was also extremely formal, only ever calling Silvia _Mother_, despite her effort to get him to call her Mummy, like Mycroft.

Finding no real reason to reprimand him, Silvia dismissed Sherlock. "Ok, sweetheart. Off you go and play."

When he was gone, Silvia slumped back into her chair, pressing her fingertips together as was her habit whenever she was thinking.

It seemed to her that time and time again Sherlock was being unfairly told off at nursery because the staff didn't understand his way of communicating. It wasn't fair that her Sherlock should have to take the blame because his vocabulary was more sophisticated than some bloody student's. Maybe Jeremy had been right and the whole nursery idea was a mistake.

Still thinking Silvia wriggled down a little more in her chair, so that her alarmingly large baby bump protruded even further. It provided a useful place to rest her elbows. She hoped that the baby wouldn't mind; it had only one more month to go.

Inside of her the baby gave a little kick.

"Oh!" said Silvia.

_A/N: Thank you for reading._


	3. Arrival

**Chapter Three: Arrival **

_23__rd__ December 1985 _

Sherwin Holmes was born on the 22nd December at 4.00am.

Sherlock, now nearly four years old, was determined to be the ideal big brother that his father and mother had insisted he be. So, he was currently hanging onto the side of the baby's cot, sharing with his little sister all of his knowledge about the pirates of Cornwall and clutching a piece of paper.

"And this is a drawing of the _Blessed William_," said Sherlock, dangling the picture in front of Sherwin's face, although she had fallen asleep some time ago. "The _Blessed William_ was the ship of Captain William Kidd. The _Blessed William _wasa privateer brigantine -"

"Sherlock, sweetie," Silvia said around a yawn. "It is _three_ in the morning! Sherwin has been asleep for a good twenty minutes. Don't you feel sleepy?"

"A privateer was an armed vessel owned," Sherlock went on, obvious to his mother's pained expression, "and officered by a private person holding a commission from the government, and authorized to use it against hostile nations especially in the capture of merchant ships, and to take pirate vessels of any nation."

Silvia rolled her eyes. There was no stemming the flow of verbalized maritime history once Sherlock began talking about his favourite subject. She considered waking Rachel, their Nanny, and requesting that she put Sherlock to bed, or at least stay awake with him and make sure he didn't get up to any mischief.

Silvia yawned again, and adjusted the blanket around her tiny, firstborn daughter, as Sherlock babbled on.

_Daughter_, Silvia smiled to herself. Now she had two sons and a daughter, somehow her family felt complete.

Sherwin snuffled quietly in her sleep, but did not wake up. So far, Sherwin had proved herself to be a very well behaved and quiet baby, sleeping solidly through the better part of each night and only waking occasionally to be fed. It made it easier on Rachel and herself as they took it in turns to feed her. She was the complete opposite to Sherlock, who had always been a poor sleeper, and was still full of energy even though it was coming up to a quarter past three, evident by his rigorous bouncing and turning somersaults on the double bed. Perhaps it was just as well that Jeremy had taken, once again, to sleeping in another room, with all of the disruptions going on.

"It was time you were asleep too, Sherlock," Silvia said. She held out a hand. "Come on."

Sherlock ignored her hand, but bounded off the bed. He hurried over to the cot and neatly slotted his detailed drawing of the _Blessed William _(now crumpled thanks to his acrobatics) through the bars so that it was propped up in the corner behind Sherwin's head.

As Silvia and Sherlock headed down the corridor towards Sherlock's bedroom, Silvia was humming a song under her breath, "I held her there…My love, so pale and silent…As if she were a dream that must not fade…"

She stopped when she noticed how agitated Sherlock was becoming, constantly twisting around to stare back in the direction of the master bedroom.

"What's the matter, Sherlock?"

"I don't think it's safe to leave Sherwin alone, Mother," he said.

Silvia laughed. "Don't be silly! Nothing is going to happen!" She went back to singing, "And yet that cloud had only bloomed for minutes…When I looked up, it vanished on the air…"

Sherlock began to run back towards the bedroom, no longer a child, but an adult.

There was a sudden heavy pressure on his arm and he tried to swing it away….

Somebody swore.

Sherlock blinked awake, feeling confused and disorientated - no longer in the past, but standing on the landing of his flat in Baker Street. That made the identity of the person who swore easy to guess.

"John?" he mumbled.

"Yeah, yeah, it's me!" John grumbled, as he hauled himself off the carpet, rubbing a hand across his face. "You almost broke my nose - thanks for that!"

Sherlock slid to the floor, leaning against the stair banister. The lights were still off, but the flat was bathed only in a half-light. Late afternoon, then.

"Are you okay?" John asked, sounding calmer now that his nose had stopped throbbing so much. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock plucked at his shirt. It was sticking uncomfortably to his chest.

"Sherlock?" John repeated.

Sherlock looked up at his flatmate, his fingers still pulling at the top button on the shirt.

"I was….sleepwalking?" he said, in disbelief.

"Yeah," John confirmed. "And you almost fell headfirst down the stairs. I managed to catch you just in time."

"Thanks."

John shrugged. "It's was a bit weird watching you. I mean, I didn't even realize that you were asleep at first. You suddenly jumped off the sofa and then you were walking around in circles, muttering under your breath -"

"And you didn't realize I was asleep?"

"It's what you always do. Anyway, you started heading towards the landing, so I thought I'd better stop you."

"Why didn't you wake me sooner, John?"

"It's not supposed to be safe -"

"What was I saying?"

"Oh, nothing, much," said John, becoming defensive. "I couldn't make it out. Is it important?"

"No," said Sherlock.

_A/N: Thank you for reading._


	4. Requires Legs

Requires Legs

Sherlock dragged himself out of the dark, muddy waters and onto the sandy, filthy embankment of the Thames, his deep blue tail flapping.

"Sherlock! Are you okay? Hold on!"

Sherlock followed the sound of the voice. An ash-blonde man was running towards him. He was soaking wet and, like Sherlock, looking a little worse for wear.

"Sherlock!"

John crouched beside him.

"Where's Moriarty?" John asked. He didn't wait for an answer. he wasn't expecting one. "If he survived then he'll flood the whole of London!"

"Dead," Sherlock rasped. "He's dead. Turned to sea-foam."

John looked back at him, wide-eyed.

"You can speak now?"

"My tongue was the price I paid to become human," Sherlock whispered. "Now that Moriarty is dead all of his spells are undone. My tongue grew back, along with my tail."

"Oh," said John. "Did it hurt?"

"Yes."

"Good," sniffed John. "You're an idiot! Everything that Moriarty did was just because you wanted to be human for a few days."

"I didn't want to be human."

"What?"

"I wanted to explore your world."

John fell silent at that. He looked out across the Thames, when he suddenly started.

"There's another merman out there."

Sherlock groaned, rubbing his face. "Is he frowning like a constipated catfish?"

"I've never seen a constipated catfish, but I going to say yes."

"That's my brother, Mycroft. Come to drag me back home."

John felt uncomfortable being stared at, scrutinized by Sherlock's brother, but he stared the elder Merman down. Eventually, Mycroft gave a small nod and pointed the tip of his trident towards Sherlock.

A stream of golden light gushed over the surface of the water towards Sherlock, enveloping him.

Sherlock curled up and then stretched out, growing before John's eyes, as his tail split into two long legs. A smart suit covered his body, a scarf (the same blue as his tail had been) wrapped itself around his neck, a long black coat swished down to his ankles.

Sherlock looked down at himself, and laughed. He spun around, his coat flaring out.

_You can never return home, Sherlock_, a low voice echoed in their heads. _I hope you have chosen the correct world._

"Thank you, Mycroft," Sherlock whispered, gazing at his brother.

_Remember Sherlock comes from a different world, Doctor Watson. Teach him the rules and do not allow any harm come to him. I will know if it does._

"I will do my best," John said, nodding.

_Goodbye then, brother._

"Goodbye, brother," Sherlock said, waving Mycroft goodbye as he disappeared beneath the surface.

Oooooooo

Now that Sherlock could talk he began to ask John questions, lots and lots of questions, about how John's world worked.

In return John asked Sherlock about his world, and they learnt from each other, making the occasional mistake along the way, but both becoming wiser because of their friendship.

_A/N: Ok, so obviously this was inspired by The Little Mermaid by Hans Christian Anderson. Some say Anderson had Asperger's and the Little Mermaid story reflects his yearning to feel part of the world, I guess like Wrong Planet Syndrome. _

_Thank you for reading, reviewing, following and favouriting! _


	5. The Door Bell

**The Door Bell**

_From the blog of John Watson_

There are certain noises which really make Sherlock suddenly tense up and it is hard to know how to ignore him flinching, because he will if he's too relaxed and caught unawares by the sound, and he hates to appear vulnerable in any way.

Personally, I don't think any less of him for it. He has hypertensive hearing, so why would it surprise me that certain sounds will make him act a little more jumpy than usual? After I was invalided home from Afghanistan, I was constantly jumping and flinching at sudden noises. It's embarrassing when it happens in public, but at home he doesn't have to worry about me making fun of him.

However,…I think he has a phobia of door bells. No, phobia is the wrong word. An intense dislike is more accurate. The sound of the door bell ringing seems to anger him and he will start yelling for it to shut up. Most people would either put up with it, try to find a way to desensitize to it, or even disconnect and replace it with one that they can stand. But, not Sherlock, no. He always has had a unique way of getting around life's little problems….He shot it.

Yeah, I was quite surprised by that too and I live with him. The door bell started ringing, Sherlock snatched up the gun, ran down stairs and - _bang!_ Came back upstairs, handed the gun to me and laid back down on the sofa to carry on mediating or whatever it is he does.

Poor postman…..I don't think he's gotten over the shock yet.

_A/N: Thank you for reading and reviewing. _


	6. How to be Literal

**How To Be Literal**

"What's the matter, Sherlock?"

Sherlock jolted slightly at suddenly hearing his name, but then looked down at the magazine he had been holding loosely in his hands, to remind himself what he had been reading.

"It's about science…" he said, annoyed at his own vagueness. He had lost interest in the article some time ago and had drifted into a daydream.

John looked bewildered for a moment, but then he smiled and shook his head. "I wasn't asking about the subject matter of your magazine, Sherlock! I was asking: what is the matter with _you_?"

Sherlock sighed heavily. "Isn't it obvious, John? I'm bored."

John nodded, and went back to typing furiously on his laptop.

Sherlock threw down his magazine. "I'm so bored!" he moaned.

John ignored him.

A few minutes later John announced, "You're not bored."

"Sorry?"

"You're not bored," John replied. "You are Sherlock Holmes and you are _feeling_ bored. But, your name is not bored, so stop saying, "I'm bored". It's irritating."

Sherlock sat himself up on the sofa, frowning. "You're very tetchy, John," he said, almost sounding hurt, but intrigued too. John never corrected _him _about being ambiguous. It was distinctly un-John like.

"Hmm, well, if I'm honest, I find your constant moaning about my blog being ungrammatical and inaccurate annoying. I just thought I'd give you some slight pay-back."

"Oh." Sherlock sank back down on the sofa. "If I don't correct you, then how will you -"

"And do you know how many alternative words and phrases for "bored" there are in the English language?" John asked, cutting right across him.

"Not many?" Sherlock guessed.

"Not many. It is a very boring word."

"Yes, I agree."

00000000000000000

John paused by the door, which had a small sign on it saying: Fire door. This door must be kept closed at all times.

A thought occurred to John and he smiled to himself. Sherlock was not the only one who could read everything in a literal sense. He pointed to the sign.

"So, if this door must be kept shut at all times, then how does anyone get in or out?" he asked Sherlock.

"Oh! Perhaps that's why it says, "Fire door", Sherlock grinned. "It hasn't been doing its job properly!" *

They exploded into a fit of giggles.

Molly could hear them laughing loudly on the other side of the door.

"What _is_ so funny about a bloody door?" her colleague asked.

Molly shrugged. "I'm sure it's just nerves. Some people don't like bodies."

_A/N: The fire door joke comes from someone on WrongPlanet. It made me laugh so hard._

_Thank you for reading and reviewing!_


	7. Eccentric Sleeping Habits

**Eccentric Sleeping Habits **

"Sherlock?"

John tapped attentively on Sherlock's bedroom door, before sticking his head into the darkened room, immediately focusing on the bed.

It was empty.

John was starting to feel a little harassed. It had been a long case, yes, and he had been glad that early that evening Sherlock had ambled off to his room to catch up on his sleep. But, now John had Lestrade on his phone complaining that Sherlock wasn't answering his. But, now it seemed that Sherlock wasn't even in his room. Where had he gone?

There was a dark shape in front of the hefty sea-chest Sherlock kept at the foot of his bed and as John's eyes adjusted to the gloom, he could see that it was a large cardboard box with the flaps closed on top. He felt a slow sinking feeling in his stomach as he observed that box.

No, he couldn't. No one, not even Sherlock, could be so odd as to sleep in a…

But, he was. As John neared the box he saw two long legs, poking out from under the flaps, and hooked over the side of the box. Lifting the flaps, John peered inside. Sherlock was curled up on the bottom of the box, wrapped in his duvet and clutching his pillow.

"Is he there?" Lestrade demanded.

John jumped. He had forgotten that he was holding his mobile.

"Ye-es," said John. "Actually, he's asleep in a cardboard box."

"A cardboard…? Oh, never mind! Nothing should surprise me anymore. Look, when he wakes up, get him to ring me back."

Lestrade rang off.

John pushed his phone back into his pocket, keeping his eyes locked on his flatmate.

"Sherlock," he called.

Sherlock didn't respond.

John took hold of Sherlock's left ankle and began to shake it.

This time Sherlock stirred, drawing his legs into the box and shifting into a foetal position. John reached into the box and flicked an ear. Sherlock groaned as he tried to swat John away. His eyes blinked open.

"John," he mumbled, pulling the back of his hand over his eyes. "Why did you wake me up? It's obviously nothing important." He closed his eyes again.

"It could be important," said John.

"If it were you would be pulling me out of the box by now, instead of just looking confused over….something. Whatever it is I'm sure you can sort it out without me."

"You're the reason I'm looking confused! Why are you sleeping in a box?"

"Because I'm tired," Sherlock murmured thickly, breathing deeply.

"I figured that out for myself, thanks. What's wrong with your bed or the sofa?"

Seconds passed without Sherlock answering and John thought maybe he had fallen asleep again. But, then Sherlock said quietly, "The pressure feels good. With my back pushing against the cardboard and my duvet pressing against my stomach. And it's darker….quieter in the box. It's relaxing. You should try it sometime."

"No thanks! You look like a hamster!"

Sherlock's forehead crinkled up. "You didn't answer my question."

"What? Oh, Lestrade wants you to call him back when you wake up."

"I am awake," Sherlock mumbled.

"Barely. Leave it until tomorrow, okay?"

"Okay….and I'll lend you my box…."

John shook his head and headed towards the door.

"Goodnight, Sherlock. Don't let the…cardboard box bugs bite."

_A/N: I've heard people say they sleep on the floor or on the sofa, but sleeping in a cardboard box is just Sherlock being Sherlock._

_Thank you for reading and reviewing._


	8. Society of Autism Appreciation

**The Autism Appreciation Society**

_From the blog of Dr John H Watson:_

**Feeling the Awesome in Autism**

There really isn't enough focus on the positives of autism. Not even close. So, typing as an non-autistic individual, here is my top 10 reasons for being awe of autism.

1.) You are amazingly authentic! You are not afraid not to speak the truth. There is no pretence or manipulation. What we see is what we get.

2.) You have incredible focus! I'll never ceased to be amazed by it.

3.) Witty and funny! Your laughter is contagious because it is always sincere.

4.) The areas of science and art wouldn't be the same without the creativity and genius of autistic individuals.

5.) You are capable of remarkable empathy, sensitive to the atmosphere of a room before you even set foot in it.

6.) You can turn chaos into order, while others lose their heads and are unable to think straight.

7.) Your heightened senses allow you to feel the world more. Sometimes it can be overwhelming, but other times you can appreciate and be delighted by nature, making the rest of us look stiff and un-interesting.

8.) Small details are never forgotten or neglected.

9.) You are wonderfully complicated and never boring.

10.) You are loyal and haven't abandoned me yet.

**7 Comments:**

How many exclamation marks must you use? It's annoying.

-SH

Shhh! The list wasn't just for you anyway.

-JW

Why not just declare your love for SH right here and now, John?

-GL

Do that and I'll move out.

- SH

Ahhh, but then you'll mess up the number 10 on his list.

- GL

Then he just have to write a new number 10. He could say that I'm enigmatic, unsolvable, dramatic….

- SH

Daft, batty, eccentric…

- JW

_A/N: You people are awesome and I hope people tell you so. _

_Thank you for reading!_


	9. Points

**108 Reasons Why I Know I have Asperger's Syndrome**

1.) Yes, I can read for ten hour straight. Can't you?

2.) Why can't we paint the flat bright red?

3.) I am John's best friend. Why does he need other friends?

4.) I am John's best friend. Why does he need a girlfriend?

5.) How old is John?

6.) John is not my only friend. I have friends from university. They've just been ignoring my emails and texts for the past ten years.

7.) Are my shoes on the right feet?

8.) Memorized the periodic table by age three.

9.) Why does John always notice that I'm walking on my toes before I do?

10.) I don't mind keeping body parts in the fridge, so neither does John.

11.) Most thirty year old men don't zone out because of tinsel in shop windows. But, it's so shiny and beautiful to look at.

12.) Most thirty year old men don't squirm after touching a piece of tinsel to see if it feels as good as it looks and then discovering that it actually feels horrible! We are not having it in the flat!

13.) Summer is too hot and intense sunlight makes everything too bright.

14.) Winter is too cold and snow makes everything too bright. Frost on the ground is sparkly and eye catching.

15.) It's not a good idea to stop to stare at the frost on the ground when a car is heading towards you.

16.) What? You want me to go outside?

17.) I can't go out, John. The case has a lower than seven rating.

18.) I can't go out, John. My coat and scarf are at the dry cleaners. I don't care if it is summer.

19.) The fire alarm is beeping and the telephone is ringing at the same time. I need time to decide which noise to pay attention to.

20.) John is having a birthday party. I'll read in my room until it's over.

21.) Molly asked me out on a date?! When?

22.) I only know which expression my face is pulling when I concentrate. Otherwise, it's just my face.

23.) You smell horrible. Did you even wash your hands after going to the toilet?

24.) My stomach has been hurting all day. Time to eat?

25.) John, is that sarcasm?

26.) There are how many emotions?

27.) You can celebrate my birthday if you want. I'll be in the mortuary weighing vital organs.

28.) Do I have to say thank you even if I don't like the present?

29.) Why can't I sleep on the sofa?

30.) Do you mind if we have lasagne for the fifth night in a row?

31.) Jumping for joy is something I'm only supposed to do in private. But, I sometimes forget.

32.) People will stare if I jump, twirl and spin in public. But, I don't care. It's fun!

33.) There is no rule saying that Lego is for children only.

34.) How many children didn't memorize at least one hundred digits of Pi?

35.) I can't get dressed today, John. After you messed up my sock index I can't decide which pair to wear.

36.) It doesn't matter how many times I wash my bed sheets and dressing gown I can't get rid of the scent of Irene Adler's perfume.

37.) IBS. Painful both physically and emotionally.

38.) I know what I mean in my head. Why don't you?

39.) Why won't you play Cluedo with me?

40.) Do I know you? Why are you waving at me? Oh, hello, Mrs Hudson! I didn't recognize you outside of the flat.

41.) Freeing London of Moriarty and his worldwide criminal network? Piece of cake! Ironing and folding my clothes neatly? Tricky…

42.) John, your voice is annoying today.

43.) If you and Mary didn't want to be disturbed you should have said so.

44.) How can a person be in two minds over something?

45.) John, did you remember my keys?

46.) I'm suffering from a people overdose. Leave me alone!

47.) Why do shops have to so brightly lit?

48.) Don't touch me! It's like having a hundred insects crawling up my skin.

49.) Women don't find me that attractive, John, otherwise they would all flirt with me.

50.) Why are standing with your arms like that, Mrs Hudson? You want a hug? Why?

51.) If that woman didn't want me to stare at her top then why did she choose to wear one with an interesting pattern on it?

52.) I know you're trying to tell me something with your face. Can you verbalize?

53.) You're pointing to the egg box and saying, "Just get one." Do you mean one egg or one box of eggs? Should I take one egg out of it's box? Be more specific!

54.) My shirt is irritating the back of my neck. I'm going to have to change it. I don't care if I am in the middle of chasing a criminal. This needs sorting now!

55.) It takes me a second to remember that I have to give the taxi driver an address.

56.) A reminder from John: _Invite potential clients to sit down, especially if they appear to be upset. _

57.) The Wired AQ test is annoying! How can I "slightly agree" or "slightly disagree" with a statement?

58.) I would love to keep talking small with you, but I have more important things to do.

59.) You said that the weather has turned really nasty lately, so why did you walk away when I started telling you about the morphology of snowflakes?

60.) I was doing Lestrade a favour when I told him that his trouser flies were undone.

61.) I was _not_ flirting with Molly Hooper when I edited the speech she had to give to the R.C.P. I was giving her my full attention because she said that I owed her that much at least. How did that look like I'm interested in her?

62.) I have more bruises. When and how did I hurt myself?

63.) Analyzed 200 different types of tobacco ash in 36 hours! I am awesome!

64.) Sorting my socks is relaxing.

65.) I can drive, but most people ban me. Even John. After only letting me drive once!

66.) The worst kind of pain is caused by having shampoo or shower gel in my eyes. Once John nearly broke the lock on the door because he heard me swearing and thought that I had seriously injured myself. He knows better now.

67.) I will avoid the hospital at all costs. It's smelly, noisy, bright and full of sick people. They are not clean as they should be!

68.) Why isn't it safe for me to go for a walk around the streets of London at 3am?

69.) Yes, sleeping more would make The Work easier. But, I won't change now.

70.) Yes, eating during cases would give me more energy. But, I won't try it.

71.) Why is it strange that Angelo cuts my hair? He knows _exactly_ how I like it done and does it the same way each time.

72.) Why do I have to go the hospital, John? It'll be more trouble than it's worth.

73.) New clothes? Why? This suit is only ten years old.

74.) Why can't I wear a jumper over my suit jacket? The jumper will keep me warm and the jacket will prevent the wool from rubbing against my skin.

75.) I've just read John's blog post from the 31st January. In what way am I a madman?

76.) Why doesn't Billy the Skull count as a friend?

77.) Molly has given me a Christmas present…do I need to give one back? Send a thank you card?

78.) Every time I try to make I new friend I seem to end up with yet another enemy instead.

79.) Why can't two friends go on a date if they like each other and want to have some fun?

80.) I'm not jealous or controlling, but Molly has shown that she is strangely attracted to sociopaths and psychopaths. So, as her friend, from now on I am going to have to deduce everything I can about her boyfriends and frighten them off until she finds someone perfect. Failing that she would be better off as a spinster with only her cats for company. Her late father would thank me.

81.) I am _good _friend in my own way. I use my talent and skills to improve the lives of the people I care about (See number 80).

82.) Note from Molly: _You are a perfectionist! Stop it! I would settle for less than perfect as long as he is kind. _

83.) The world is black and white. There is only good and evil. Friends and enemies. Me against the rest of the world.

84.) I trust John completely. He would have died for me. Which is way he had to be left behind.

85.) Odd how homesick I am for the flat, Bart's and New Scotland Yard. Places trigger stronger emotions in me than thinking about people. John is always an exception.

86.) John would be safer if I stayed away from him. It would be selfish of me to ruin his new life, so I won't do it. I find that an easy decision to make.

87.) I always choose logic over emotion. Always.

88.) I always stick with a decision once my mind is made up.

89.) I can stick to my decisions, but I am always open minded. There are some pros to going home…it would be fun….and…and a terrorist plot on London?! Thank goodness I have an excuse!

90.) Honestly, John, I didn't realize that revealing myself to be alive in the most dramatic and theatrical way that I could have possibly thought of, would have shocked you that much!

91.) Since when did I start having friends in the plural?

92.) Showers are irritating, baths are fun.

93.) Of course, I have to splash around in the bath. How else will I be able to see the water sloshing around?

94.) Why were you so worried, John? I only disappeared for three days.

95.) John now likes me to leave a note if I'm going away for any length of time.

96.) John, that's not the right cup for that kind of tea.

97.) Yes, I have a watch. Why would that help me to be on time more often?

98.) It was daytime when I started reading and now it's night-time. How did that happen?

99.) John, I've lost my watch again.

100.) Why does everyone think so slowly? Keep up!

101.) Your make-up is distracting me. Why do you need to wear so much?

102.) I didn't like the ear-hat at first. But, now I'm never going to take it off.

103.) Why does it upset you what people think about _me?_

104.) How could you have failed to notice that the supposedly dead murder victim has one more mole than she did yesterday?

105.) Lists….I can't stop writing lists….one thought leads to another….

106.) Why won't that talk show accept anymore calls from me? I'm only helping and I'm always right.

107.) Why doesn't anyone laugh at my jokes?

108.) I should stop writing and actually get dressed.

_A/N: Sorry for any mistakes. Sorry that these points are in chronological order. _

_I also apologize if any points are seriously off. _


	10. Extract from Jim's Book

_A/N: I was bored, (but in a good mood!), so I quickly typed up this. It's just a short filler which should only take a minute or two to read. Anyway, thank you for reading! _

**Who's Who in Scotland Yard **

Extract from James Moriarty's biography: I.O.U. (Available in all good underground bookshops, or from the third dustbin behind Angelo's; knock three times and ask for Percy the Badger.)

_Sherlock Supporters_

**Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade **

Appearance: Irrelevant.

Notes: He's the King Arthur of our world. Sherlock wouldn't agree with me. But, he does seem to have that paternal quality that has Sherlock and all the other younger detectives scrambling for Daddy's approval. I've heard rumours that Sherlock had a little Fruedian slip and called him, "Father,"! Whoops! I wish I had seen that! But, then I would've wet myself laughing. But, it does mean that I can use Daddy in my plans.

**Detective Inspector Athelney Jones**

Appearance: Tall, bulky and blonde!

Notes: She's Welsh and she likes to box with Sherlock. She calls him her "little Theorist", but hands off, he's mine! Otherwise she's boring!

**Detective Inspector Dimmock**

I have nothing interesting to say about this one.

**Detective Constable Stanley Hopkins**

Appearance: He's always wearing those green tinted lenses.

Notes: It's always a shame when someone talented can't earn promotion. He has PDD-NOS - what a mouthful! His family run a lucrative publishing company and has a sister with classic autism. Maybe I should offer a helping hand to this sweet family? Either way I have some fun planned for Stanley and his sister.

_Sherlock Haters_

**Detective Sergeant Sarah Donovan**

**Detective Sergeant William Bowler**

**Detective Sergeant Thomas Cooper**

**Detective Constable Mandy Jones**

**Detective Constable Gita Gautam**

You know what? Just assume that everyone minus the names above hates Sherlock. It'll be quicker that way.


	11. Chapter 11

**A Study In Senses **

The next afternoon after the conclusion of the Taxi Driver case, John retuned to Baker Street with a suitcase in his left hand and a plastic Tesco carrier bag clutched in his right, with his laptop in its bag hanging off his shoulder. The suitcase had crammed into it: his clothes, a couple of battered paperback novels, and a wash bag containing toiletry items. His gun was lying at the bottom of the case in a concealed layer which he had very proudly created himself some months earlier. The false bottom was fashioned out of cheap plywood he had purchased for half-price from a D.I.Y shop. He had then covered the plywood with the material he had stripped off the real bottom of the suitcase. But, once he picked the suitcase up, John found that the gun rattled around nosily, so then taking a heavy roll of brown duct tape (also brought from the same D.I.Y shop, but not for half-price) he taped the gun into place. The false layer meant that he had lost a precious few inches of space for his clothes, but with a little force he was able to close it successfully.

The bulging supermarket bag had other odds and ends quickly swept into it - pens, notepaper, his RAMC mug and some other bits. The rest of his worldly belongings were locked away in rented storage somewhere in the Midlands. One day, sooner rather than later, he would either have to retrieve it or sell it online.

John struggled from the taxi to the front door of 221. He almost over balanced as two young girls zoomed past on their glittery scooters right in front of him.

Dropping the suitcase onto the pavement John was about to press the doorbell for Mrs Hudson when next door two men came out of their house. John remembered Mrs Hudson's words from yesterday, "Oh, don't worry! There's all sorts round here. Mrs Turner's got married ones," and assumed that he was looking at them.

One was the tall, solid type of man who could have passed for being a soldier. The other was a little shorter (but still taller than John) and had light brown hair and a pale face.

The taller man smiled good-naturedly at John and held out his hand for him to shake.

"Hello. I'm Paul," he said. "This is my partner, John."

"Oh," said John, shaking the man's hand and smiling at the other man. "That's a good name."

"You mean -"

"John Watson. Hi."

"Hello."

"It's good to meet you, John," Paul nodded. He glanced at his watch, signalling to John that he and his partner had places to be, but still he hovered on the doorstep as if unwilling to cut the conversation short.

"We've got ages yet," the other John muttered to him. "So, stop panicking."

"Sorry," Paul said to John Watson. "We've got a table booked, I hate being late. Anyway, we should meet up properly sometime and swap stories about our mad landladies. I don't know when, though. I'm a paramedic, so I get all the wonderful night shifts. John's a children's book illustrator. He doesn't have a routine."

Paul's John rolled his eyes in a pantomime fashion at the slight dig.

"Ignore him," he said. "It's harder than you'd think. Publishers are becoming more picky by the day. I'll be sure to give you a dedication in my next book, John."

"Uh, thanks," said John.

"And what do you do?"

John shrugged. It was always hard trying to explain to new people that he was an army doctor who had been shot and invalided out of Afghanistan. At least he didn't have to tell his story to Sherlock, who had simply deduced his life story. "I'm in between jobs at the moment."

"Don't worry, I'm sure you'll find something soon," said Paul's John. He suddenly grinned mischievously. "There is a new supermarket opening soon…"

"Only if I'm desperate."

Paul suddenly looked worried. "I should mention that I play the cello and guitar. Don't worry, I'll keep to practising during reasonable hours." He stretched his neck to look at something over John's shoulder. "There's your, uh, flatmate?" he said, unsure of what their relationship was.

"He's just a mate," John confirmed, before turning around to see Sherlock Holmes sauntering towards them.

The last time he had seen Sherlock had been outside the Chinese restaurant the previous night. He had waited with John until the taxi arrived to take John back to his small flat where his things still were. He hadn't appeared to have been listening when John told him that he would bring his things over to 221 B the next day. As the taxi pulled away John realized that Sherlock looked like something of an easy target for muggers as he walked down the dark street staring his expensive Smart phone, and hoped he would be alright.

John was glad to see him, even he was looking a little worse for wear with his hair sticking up at odd angles and with dark shadows under his eyes. He frowned at the gathering between the two front doors.

"We're having a resident's meeting," Paul said cheerfully.

Sherlock's reply was brusque. "Why? What for?"

John shook his head. "They're only saying hello," he muttered.

"Hi, I'm Paul," said Paul, once again holding out a hand, which was ignored.

The detective pulled out a front door key. "I know. You're a paramedic."

Paul looked a little taken aback, "How did you know?"

"Keep it simple, Sherlock," John warned. "I'm sure they don't want to hear a long deduction essay."

"I didn't have to deduce it," Sherlock said, slowly. "We've met before."

"Have we?"

"One year ago. You were kind enough to ask the ambulance driver to cycle through the different siren patterns every ten seconds or so."

Paul's face suddenly lit up.

"I remember!" he cried. "Sorry, people look different when they're -"

"Suffering from mild hypothermia? I imagine so."

"No! I mean…Anyway, it's great to see you again, mate!"

"Hmm," Sherlock grunted, putting the key into lock and pushing the door open.

"No, it's good to see you so looking so well now," Paul went on. "Small world, isn't it? I'm impressed you remember me."

Paul's John nodded in agreement.

"We won't keep you any longer," Sherlock announced. He just about remembered to smile, albeit a very fake looking one, at the couple. "I see that you're on your way to an expensive restaurant."

"Yes, yes," said Paul, still marvelling over life's small coincidences. "We'd better get going. Come on, John."

Inside 221 B, Sherlock nimbly ran up the stairs, taking two steps at a time, to the flat leaving John to lag behind, puffing and panting as he hauled his bags up the steps. By the time he had reached the living room Sherlock was out of sight somewhere.

"You could have offered to help," John huffed to the empty room as he flopped down on the sofa.

A minute later Sherlock reappeared dressed in an odd mixture of new and old, expensive and cheap: a blue silk dressing gown, a tatty olive green t-shirt (which John could clearly see was inside out by the stitching around the collar) and a pair of blue pyjama bottoms.

He had the audacity to pull a guilty face when he looked between the suitcase and bags left dropped in the doorway and John sprawled out on the sofa.

"If you needed help you should have so," he said.

"And you should have offered," John retorted. "You can make me a cup of tea though."

Sherlock nodded and went into the kitchen. John smiled at the repeating sound of cupboard doors being opened and swung shut again as Sherlock searched for either the tea or the tea mugs, or even possibly the kettle and tea pot. John had a feeling that domestic tasks were not Sherlock's strong suit. There was even the telltale bang of the oven door being shut.

"What does the H in your name stand for?" Sherlock called.

"Can't you deduce it?" John asked, flicking through the pages of the New Scientist magazine he had found crumpled behind a cushion.

"Is it Hamish?"

Finally, John heard the clink of two cups being placed down on the work surface and then the sound of water rushing out of the tap and into the kettle.

"Yes, well done."

Sherlock stuck his head around the partition, with a disgusted look on his face. "So, I got it right? But, I guessed it!"

John shrugged, too busy reading an article about why people should just see themselves as just a brain surrounded by bone and flesh, to argue with Sherlock about why lucky guesses may or may not exist. Maybe Sherlock had written the article under a pseudonym.

By the time he had reached the end Sherlock was placing a cup of rather milky looking tea in front of him. He looked up (trying not to look too disgusted with his drink) just as Sherlock started yawning from where he sat in an armchair.

"You look exhausted," John said. "Have you been to sleep at all since I saw you last night?" Then he thought about it some more. "Did you even come back here at all after I last saw you?"

Yawning again, Sherlock waved the end of his dressing-gown at John. John had to guess that it meant _Look, I'm in my pyjamas, meaning that I will be going to bed soon, so stop nagging. _

"Why were you out all night?"

"I was trying to find someone who might know what Moriarty means."

"Any luck?"

"I don't believe in luck," Sherlock sighed, sliding down in his seat as he stretched his long legs out.

"Ok, but did you find anything?"

"No."

The detective was suddenly looking gloomy, so John decided to change the conversation.

"What was that about the different sirens?"

"Sorry?" Sherlock blinked at the sudden change in topics.

"You said that Paul told the ambulance driver to switch through the different sirens every ten seconds. Why?"

There was a pause before Sherlock answered. John put it down to tiredness because he could almost see Sherlock running the question through his head a second time, either trying to make sense of the words or trying to form an answer.

"Oh, that," Sherlock finally said. "Using the same siren all the way to the hospital would have been extremely painful for me. Changing the siren helped a little."

"Do you have sensitive hearing or something?"

"I don't like continuous loud noises."

Sherlock stood up and stretched.

"I'm going to bed," he announced. "Good morning, John."

_1__st__ March_

Life went on - John tried to find employment (unsuccessfully) and Sherlock lounged around in the flat waiting for an interesting case (in vain) - more or less peacefully. John still found Sherlock fascinating, if a little mad (see blog entry for 31st January), but, at least now he felt he could put a name to what made Sherlock seem a little different.

He was starting to wonder if Sherlock was somewhere on the autism spectrum. He was noticing certain behaviours of Sherlock which _could_ be indicative of autism, or just as easily be idiosyncratic to Sherlock and not be autism at all. In the end John decided that it was pointless trying to figure it out. Sherlock was Sherlock and nothing could possibly change that.

Detective Inspector Lestrade came to the flat that afternoon, climbing wearily up the seventeen steps.

John offered him tea, which he declined, while Sherlock pretended to ignore him from where he lay supine on the sofa. He had been to disappointed to hear the inspector climbing the stairs slowly - if it had been an urgent matter he would have charged up them. The odds were that Lestrade was visiting with a tedious chore in mind for Sherlock and knew that a battle of wills was about to ensue.

"I've been working on the murder of a man called James Date," Lestrade began.

"Really?" asked Sherlock, eyes shut. "What has he done to you?"

This time Lestrade ignored him. It was best to get to the point as quickly as possible. "It was an open and shut case. We've arrested the murderer. But, there is something which just doesn't feel right…"

"What is it?"

"Date's best friend, Declan Norton. There's something very shifty about him and I just know that he's hiding something, but I'm not sure what. So, I was wondering if -"

"No."

"If you deduced something or even noticed something slightly off it could at least help me ask the right questions."

"No."

"From someone who isn't a police officer…"

"No."

"I'm not asking much," Lestrade wheedled.

"Yes you are."

"It won't take long."

"But, long enough."

"Please."

"No."

"Just -"

"102."

"What?"

"It's the atomic number of nobelium. Chemical symbol is No."

Lestrade sighed and lent back in his chair, rubbing his eyes. He was losing and he knew it.

"Mrs Hudson is in a cleaning mood," John pitched in from the sidelines.

The smallest of creases appeared on Sherlock's forehead.

Lestrade smiled briefly at John, grateful for the support.

"All morning she's been polishing and cleaning," John continued. "Her flat, then the hall, slowly making her way up here…"

"Fine!" Sherlock snapped, opening his eyes and sitting up in one fluid movement. "Where we will find this Declan Norton?"

"Oh, you're going to love this," drawled Lestrade.

Sherlock glared at him with a look that could have smashed a concrete tiger. "Lestrade, I've only just agreed. I could change my mind."

"Sorry, sorry," Lestrade quickly retracted. "At this time in the afternoon he will be in Hyde Park, operating a Ferris Wheel as part of the funfair."

"Terrific," Sherlock muttered, ruffling up his hair. "You _do_ know that it will be turning dark soon? Couldn't you have come earlier?"

"Then you shouldn't sleep in so late should you?" Lestrade smiled, as he stood up and shrugged on his coat.

"I wouldn't if _somebody_ didn't insist that I sleep more."

John fiddled with a loose thread on his jumper and tried to avoid the Sherlock Death Glare.

"Will you go?" Lestrade asked, anxious for a definite answer.

"Yes, fine!" Sherlock growled, pressing his hands into his eyes.

"Thank you," the Scotland Yard detective nodded. He paused by the door. "Oh, and, Sherlock?"

"What?"

"Some days I could just tell you to 15, 14, 8, 8, 9. Text me if you find anything relevant to the investigation!"

Lestrade quickly descended down the stairs with far more energy than he had when he walked up them.

John waited until he was sure that Lestrade had defiantly gone before saying, "I'm assuming that those numbers refer to the periodic table?"

"You assume correct."

"That's good, isn't it? That he knows the periodic table?"

"Not as well as he would like to think he does," Sherlock said with a smirk.

"What did he say to you?"

"Just the usual. I would have put it more accurately myself." Sherlock suddenly leapt to his feet, snatching his coat of its peg. "But, you heard the man. Let's get to work and let's get this over and done with."

They arrived at Hyde Park just as the sun was setting.

"Why does it matter that it's dark?" John asked. "That's what you said to Lestrade earlier."

"Lights shine brighter in the dark," Sherlock said simply.

They would have to queued up to buy an extortionately priced entrance tickets except that Sherlock strode confidently up to the booth, waved his stolen ID card to the scared looking girl inside, and walked through without waiting for permission or denial to the park. John gave her an apologetic smile as he followed.

Inside the park the energy of the funfair fizzled like popping candy dissolving in John's mouth.

He felt quite happy to be there.

There were bright, flashing, whirling lights. People screaming and laughing. The smell of hotdogs, burgers, popcorn, donuts, and candyfloss all mixed up together into a sweet maelstrom of odours. The place was buzzing with a happy, excited charged atmosphere which rubbed off on John, bringing back memories of being young and taking multiple girlfriends on roller-coasters and other rides.

Apparently, the atmosphere did not suit everyone.

John looked sideways at Sherlock. The detective was looking a little unwell. He was pale and his shoulders was taught. He was biting the corner of his lip and blinking too much.

John suddenly felt a little worried. If Sherlock was autistic then a funfair was not going to be a pleasant place for him to be. He decided to try and make sure that they left as soon as possible. He looked around and spotted the Ferris Wheel in a gap between the stalls.

"There's the Wheel!" John said loudly above the dim. "Don't worry. We'll be out of here in no time."

Sherlock didn't answer him and for once followed John who led the way.

Declan Norton turned out to be a short man with a beard, and he wasn't happy to be interrupted at work.

"If you want to ride then you'll have to queue. I don't do any exceptions unless you're a sick kiddie. And you don't look like one," the man said with laugh.

"Do I look like I want a bloody ride?" Sherlock snarled.

John was surprised. Sherlock rarely swore.

"I just wanted to ask you a few questions about your friend, James Date. John, your shoelace is untied."

Sherlock quickly deduced from the man's necklace and the way he was eyeing up John's behind as he knelt down to tie up his shoelace, that the man was homosexual and had been having an affair with the victim, who had been married to a woman. Norton broke down and confessed that he had felt ashamed of what he had done and hoped that the widow wouldn't find out, not at this difficult time - the sum total of his guilty behaviour. Immoral and complicated, but not an arrest able offence. In fact, Sherlock felt angry that Lestrade had not unearthed this rather important fact during the investigation.

John felt relieved though that the affair was no more convoluted than that. He wanted to leave the funfair as soon as possible. He could see that Sherlock starting to feel intensely uncomfortable and was losing the fight to hold his temper in place.

John silently and quickly led the way out of the park. Both men knew that the other was aware that something was wrong, but Sherlock was too proud to explain and John wouldn't ask unless he felt he really had to.

Sherlock was silent though out the entire taxi ride home. His face was flushed and he kept his eyes closed, as if he were trying hard not to vomit.

"You look sick," John said, quietly. "Can I help?"

"No," Sherlock moaned. "Just don't - don't talk to me."

As soon as they were home Sherlock wobbly climbed the stairs and went immediately into his room, leaving John feeling at a loss as to what to do. He was sure Sherlock was going through a sensory overload and his every instinct wanted to make him go into Sherlock's room and demand to know how he could help his friend. But, Sherlock was an adult and if he was autistic then he would have had autism for all of his life - he would know how to cope with sensory overloads and what was best for himself. John barging into his room could upset his coping technique.

So, John sat down in an armchair and watched TV for about a while, hoping that Sherlock would shortly reappear and reassure him that he was OK again.

After an hour and still no sign of Sherlock John decided that the least he could do was ask Sherlock if needed any help, via text message.

_Are you okay? _John text's read.

Sherlock's reply came quickly. _Yes. Why?_

At least he's still alive and well enough to text, John thought.

_I'm bored. There's nothing good on the TV. _

_I can't do anything about that, John. _

John decided to go ahead and ask.

_And I was wondering if there was anything bothering you? Do you need anything?_

_I'm fine. _

John would have left things be at that point, except that about a minute later Sherlock sent another text.

_I have Asperger's Syndrome_.

John wasn't really sure how to reply to that. He was pleased that his suspicions had been correct and even more pleased that Sherlock had chosen to tell him. It was an admission, a sign of trust on Sherlock's part and John wasn't going to send the wrong message back. But, what was he supposed to say?

He thought about it for a moment before texting: Y_es, I know. What about it?_

After a few minutes of silence John thought that maybe Sherlock wasn't going to reply. But, then he received a new text.

_How do you know? How long have you known?_ the text demanded.

Sherlock clearly felt infuriated that John had known without him realizing it.

_Since we first met when you told M.H that her mouth was too small and then went on to deduce my life story. The evidence sort of culminated after that, _John replied.

_Why didn't you say anything?_

John found himself shrugging, even though Sherlock couldn't see him.

_I didn't think you knew that you had it. Besides, you're doing well in life. It doesn't seem so important._

_It still affects my life. I can't even go to the supermarket without getting a headache._

Interesting, thought John. He felt a little proud that Sherlock was opening up to him. He was going to have to be careful how he handled the conversation.

_You could wear sunglasses and earplugs? _he suggested.

_No, John, I couldn't. _

It was worth a try.

_Fine. Don't feel bad. It's just your Kryptonite._

Then John realized that Sherlock probably didn't know what Kyrptonite was. Better send a follow up text.

_I'm comparing you to Superman_, John's next text explained helpfully. He then wondered if Sherlock knew who Superman was. It had probably been deleted from his childhood memory.

_I don't wear bright red pants or a cape, John!_

Oh, so he does know. John was surprised, thinking: how come he didn't know about the Solar System but he knows about Superman? Perhaps it was something that had escaped deletion.

John's next text took a little longer to compose, but he managed it eventually.

_I know. But, you both have super powers and you both have weaknesses which drain you of your powers. I.e. Kryptonite or sensory issues. But to me Kryptonite is harmless and actually looks quite pretty. To you it's poison. Sometimes I don't even realise what Kryptonite looks like until you start reacting to it._

John sent it and then started a new message to continue his metaphor.

_But, your A.S has given you amazing powers of observation and deducation. No one else could do that. You are Asperman. _

John wondered if Sherlock would take offence to that. He hoped not.

_John, your sense of humour is becoming more surreal by the day. Anyway, if I'm Asperman than what does that make you? Extremely- Neurotypical-Boy?_

John grinned when he saw the text.

_Luckily for you I am! We have the ultimate superhero -friendship._

_What?_

_Extremely- Neurotypical-Boy always knows when to swoop in and offer Asperman a cup of tea to help calm his nerves…if he would like one right now while I make one for myself?_

_Your powers of ordinariness are indispensable, John._

Sherlock came out of his bedroom a few minutes later just as John was pouring out the tea into mugs.

John suddenly felt a lot happier than he had done all evening. They did have the ultimate friendship. They balanced out each other's weaknesses and added to each other strengths. John hoped that this exchanging of skills would continue for a long while yet.

_A/N: Thank you reading! Please excuse any mistakes. The Superman analogy comes from Rudy Simone's Aspergirls. Thanks!_


	12. The Pencil Test

**The Pencil Test**

While listlessly surfing the internet for something interesting to do, John came across a simple test which could highlight the differences in the way in which "neurotypical" and people with Asperger's think.

All he and Sherlock had to was to list as many uses for a pencil as they could think of within two minutes.

The two lists looked very different.

John's list:

1.) Write

2.) Draw

3.) Throw it

4.) Break it

5.) Sharpen it

6.) Jab with it

7.) Poke annoying flatmates

8.) Measure with it

9.) Erase

10.) Spin

11.) Chew

Sherlock's list:

1.) Use as a trunk of a tree. (Use pipe cleaners as branches)

2.) Draw worms to the surface by repeatedly poking soil

3.) Pick up evidence (if you don't have gloves)

4.) As a weapon

5.) A pointer for evidence board

6.) To stir tea or coffee with

7.) As a brace to support wilting plant

8.) To press small buttons on electrical devices

9.) Curling paper (by wrapping it around paper)

10.) Creating patterns by poking holes in card or paper

11.) Writing (obvious)

12.) Drawing (also obvious)

13.) Scratch away dry paint

14.) Tap on surface to create Morse code message

15.) Poke a hole in the crusted-up of a tube of toothpaste.

John stuck mainly to writing one word answers, but Sherlock preferred to write in more detail with specifics and added directions. John's list was focused only on a pencil, while Sherlock's was more imaginative. It didn't occur to Sherlock to put down "writing" and "drawing" until he had almost run out of ideas.

_A/N: This comes from Samantha Craft's blog: Everyday Asperger's. It's worth a look. She's a very clever writer and I learn a lot from her blog. _

_If you want to have a go at the test I suggest trying it with another everyday object (for a longer or shorter amount of time) and see what your friend/family member writes. Have fun!_

_Thank you for reading._


	13. Routine Birthdays

**Routine Birthdays **

I sometimes try to decide which is worse kind of change: changes to familiar places, changes in routine, or changes in people?

Why is it that my birthday has caused all three of these types of changes?

John has hung a "Happy Birthday" banner across the mantelpiece and placed a party hat on Billy. Mrs Hudson has neglected her afternoon visit to next door and is instead baking me a cake. Lestrade has sent a text asking if I want to go for a drink.

What is wrong with them? Why do they think that just because it is the anniversary of my birth that I will suddenly suffer a drastic and temporary personality change, in which I will suddenly want to celebrate something so pointless and suddenly want to knock back alcohol all night?

Really my birthday is for them and not for me. They are the ones who I insist that I celebrate it somehow and they are the ones who enjoy it more than I do. But, I know that they will be angry with me if I do not eat some of Mrs Hudson's overly sweet cake or say thank you to John for the Cludeo game I know he's brought me. It is the kind of attention I hate and have always hated.

I always despised having everyone watch as I opened presents and bleat out, "Thank you!" for every single gift, whether I liked it or not and then worrying about if my Mother approved of the way I had said it. Did I sound sincere enough or just glib? She was always observing and evaluating me, and it was exhausting.

I suppose I have been fortunate that this is the first birthday in many years I have been forced to remember. 6th January could pass by without me even noticing it. I even have to stop and remind myself of how old I am - 29 today.

I am so glad that neither John nor Mrs Hudson wail the Happy Birthday song to me. But, then Mrs Hudson starts placing colourful candles on the cake, telling me I have to blow them and make a wish.

John sees my face and mutters, "Just humour her."

So, I do. Then I storm into my room and stay there until I think she has gone.

When I come out again John has removed the banner and the party hat. The birthday cake and presents are still on the table. I can tell that John is not happy with me, but I don't care. I didn't ask for any of it.

I pick up my violin and begin to play something overly upbeat and cheerful just to show John that I really don't care about what he thinks.

After a while John sighs heavily.

"We didn't think you would be so against having a cake," he said, over the music. "It was Mrs Hudson who really wanted to have the candles. I managed to persuade her not to sing Happy Birthday."

I didn't answer, too focused on playing.

"Are you going to sulk all day?"

"A cup of tea from you would be nice."

John stood up. "Same as every other then. I'll remember that for next year."

_A/N: Thank you for reading and reviewing. _


	14. Author Note

Hello, everyone,

I apologize but it is going to be a while before I update again. This because of: A) working overtime in the shop, B) working at my second part-time job and C) a general lack of creativity.

I am sorry for this. My other fic, The Spectrum Detective, was mostly written while I was unemployed. I started to struggle with it when I found work. This new fic was supposed to be a fresh start, but I am still adjusting to a new routine. I've been moved to a different department in the shop and with doing Christmas overtime, my routine had been ruined.

But, I know that I can do better and I want to write better for everyone. I am not really happy with this fic and I've been throwing up too many short filler chapters I don't like. So, please be with patient with me. I may start updating again in the New Year, or I may even start again and try to stick to what I wanted to do with this fic. I did have a plan, but I failed to follow it.

Thank you all for your support. And once again I am sorry for being fussy about my fics and for not writing as well as I could and want to.

Have a great Christmas!


	15. Christmas Chocolate - Part 1

_A/N: Allergy Warning: This story was typed in a fic containg high levels of plot holes. Please forgive me for anything that does not make sense; I rarely write case fics for this reason. Have a good Christmas Everyone!_

**Christmas Chocolate - Part One!**

"This will make you laugh," smiled Greg Lestrade, stretching out further in Sherlock's armchair. "Someone in Birmingham has been breaking into people's houses and smashing their chocolate Santas."

"Why on earth would anyone do that?" asked John.

Greg shrugged, taking another sip of his whisky. "They even broken into the local Children Hospice to destroy all of the chocolate the local factory sends them every year, which makes the whole thing less funny and slightly more sinister, really. It's probably just some nutter."

Sherlock Holmes grunted from his place on the sofa, where he had been all afternoon. Both John and Greg could see that he was fast asleep, going by the fact that his long hands were resting limply on his stomach, rather than being held stiffly in his customary thinking pose. That and the fact there was a glistening trail of saliva running down the corner of his mouth. But, apparently that was no longer the case.

They both glanced in his direction at the sound of his grunt. His eyes were still closed, but now his elbows were pointing to the ceiling as his arms were folded up above his head. He wriggled his toes against the Union Flag cushion. John and Greg waited for him to add something else to the conversation rather than just a guttural sound, but nothing was offered and neither was willing to bite and actually ask what it was he clearly wanted to say.

"They'll catch him sooner rather than later," Greg went on.

There was another grunt, and then raw noise of Sherlock clearing his throat for attention.

John gave in knowing that Sherlock was more stubborn than he was and twisted around in his seat. "Oh, please, O Supine Wise One of the Sofa, share your insight."

Sherlock's lips curled into a smile. His eyes snapped open and swung his feet down onto the hardwood floor.

"There is a reason for everything people do. You are content to write these crimes off as the actions of a "nutter" because it is the explanation which requires the least effort to think of. But, there is a reason why this man is breaking open people's chocolate Santas. We just don't have enough to data to form a concrete explanation for it."

John nodded in agreement. Greg lent back in his chair. Sherlock tapped his feet on the floor, staring at the door.

"How disappointing," Sherlock said, breaking the moment's silence.

"What is?"

"I thought that now would be an opportune moment for a client to ring the door bell or send a text at least. It would have the followed the predictable formula for one of your blog entries, John."

"Yeah, well, this is real life, Sherlock. Not my blog."

Sherlock nodded, but pressed his hands together and rested his chin on the tips of his fingers. "I can't help but notice that reality often seems to be in flux in my life."

Greg smirked at that, while John raised an eyebrow. True, weird things happened around Sherlock, but to suggest that -

The door bell rang thrice. Maximum pressure, each ring lasting just under a half second. Sherlock practically jumped out of his seat.

"You see! Reality bends to my will once again!" he shouted. "It's a client!"

"Or it could be a friend of Mrs Hudson's," argued John.

"You heard the bell, John." Sherlock smoothed down his un-combed hair as he hurried over to his arm chair and lifted it up in order to tip the Detective Inspector out. It worked very well. They then heard the sound of heavy feet running up the seventeen steps and Mrs Hudson shouting reproachful words after them. "And it's an impatient client! They're the best kind."

"I wish I could say the same thing about Consulting Detectives," Greg muttered, narrowly avoiding spilling his drink on the carpet as he regained his balance.

Sherlock jumped into his seat, excitedly tapping his fingers on the armrests.

Mike Stamford staggered into the room, waving a clenched fist above his head.

"Sher-lock! John!" he panted, stumbling across the room. "Look what my Clara found in her chocolate Santa!"

He knelt down beside Sherlock's chair and slowly opened his sweaty hand. In his palm was a precious blue stone.

"That," Sherlock said, slowly, "Is the long lost Countess of Morcar's Blue Carbuncle."

John repeatedly thumped his fist on the mantelpiece. Perhaps reality was on the blink after all.


End file.
